


You know the story, simply heaven

by lilith_morgana



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/M, Multi, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2020-05-12 21:24:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19237375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilith_morgana/pseuds/lilith_morgana
Summary: The Detective is a random occurrence.A (mostly) chronological Chloe/Lucifer story told in moments, variations and missing scenes with and without the supporting crew.





	1. Uninvited

**Author's Note:**

> The One Where I Write Therapy Fic While Binge-watching Lucifer on Netflix Because of FEELS. You lot may have already done this for years already, feel free to ignore me.

 

 

 

> Every morning the maple leaves.  
>  Every morning another chapter where the hero shifts  
>  from one foot to the other. Every morning the same big  
>  and little words all spelling out desire, all spelling out  
>  _You will be alone always and then you will die._  
>  So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalog  
>  of non-definitive acts,  
>  something other than the desperation.
> 
> **Litany in Which Certain Things Are Crossed Out - Richard Siken**
> 
> * * *

  
The city is rubbing off on him; he knows that even before he meets the Detective.  
  
Or _knows_ might be a stretch but it’s difficult to tell what with the strange buzz of life up here - down here, _around_ here, the prepositions are ever-changing and he’s never entirely sober if he can help it - but he is very much aware that he no longer slips through this dimension as smoothly as he once did. 

It’s the silence. Heaven is harsh and divine and Hell, well, Hell is never quiet. They claim it is, _he_ claims it is but that's not true, not truly. Even at this distance he can feel the memories of it in his dreams, in those hours when he’s not surrounded by someone else, hear each separate thread of agonized torment or hopeless wailing for a God that will never come. It’s ironic how much they cry out for his dear old dad down there. How much they plead and bargain, until their souls are so distorted they no longer make any sense at all. Just noise. Infinite, unending _noise_.  
  
It’s the cleanness up here. LA is shiny surfaces and demented socialites, well-washed everything and cleaning services lining up, always ready to fulfill the most absurdly tidy person’s deepest desires. But furthermore, even _his_ job is clean here. Stumble into a deserving soul and scare him - or her but the human males are the most frequent shit-stains on the surface, no need for pretense there - into repentance and submission. No chains, no demons, no eternity of suffering, no need for any circle of any Hell, imagined or actual. Just a clean-cut punishment, like any other deal between him and the humans.  
  
It’s the humans.

They scuttle about, racing at high speed and slamming their brakes only when disaster stares them right in their pretty little faces; even then it’s too little too late for most of them but they can’t see it. The wheel’s already turning but they ignore it, rise back up from their crash to crawl further along the ridiculously short road that is their lifetime and he _admires_ that. Their broken hopes and disturbed patterns - Uriel would have a field day here if even Lucifer’s able to discern them - and every pathetic scrap of fear they posses. And oh, do they _ever_ fear the most ludicrous things on this Earth.  
  
The idea of corporate tyranny doesn’t keep them up at night nor does the extinction of countless species of animals that simply cannot thrive in the idiot systems the more recent humans have forced upon the world. They shrug off nuclear weapons and future starvation crisis in favor of getting their knickers in a twist over gaining weight and being cheated on by their partners.  
  
They are, by _oh_ so many definitions, simple creatures.  
  
And yet. Their courage and bloody-mindedness, their devotion and passions. Their well-organised little cities and countries, their food and their hotel rooms with full service and crisp sheets. Their delightful idea of entertainment, of fashion, of what constitutes a reasonable occupation for an adult. Their sense of humor, their lack of faith, their overabundance of laws to control their needs.    
  
“You have grown fond of this place,” Amenadiel booms in his most egotistical voice that first time when Lucifer hasn’t sensed or foreseen his arrival and startles briefly. The drink in his hand gives a little shiver as he he turns his head to look at his older brother. “Or how else should I interpret your absence in Hell?”  
  
“Ah well, feel free to take your pick.” Lucifer squares his shoulders and offers the kind of polite smile the humans are so fond of. He has practiced it to perfection and it always does seem to put his brother off guard.    
  
But it doesn’t change the fact that his brother is _right._    
  
There’s something about this city that resonates in him, that seems to answer a distant echo in an ancient past so far away that there are no words to describe it. Only sensations, impulses, a fractured sense of _home_ .  
  
Ironic, perhaps. Unexpected, definitely. Then again, so many things are.

  
\---

  
Delilah gets to him. She’s the first that he instantly _likes._  
  
It’s nothing special, at least nothing he can pinpoint in retrospect. He plays the piano and she sings really well and looks even better, after her first gig at Lux he licks champagne from her naked body while she screams filth into the night. Nothing out of the ordinary with that setup either - he forms habits quickly, vices even faster - and they both agree that it’s a one-time deal. Okay, two-time deal. Three, at most.  
  
Then she shows up with bruises on her face and Lucifer sees red, quite literally.  
  
“Don’t talk to him, please.” Her hands are on his arms, his face is averted. He wonders if she can sense it in him, the hellfire, always wonders which ones that can. “I just… I just needed to tell someone.”  
  
“And you choose me?” The rage subsides as surprise floods his being.  
  
"Yeah." Delilah shrugs. “Why not? I trust you.”  
  
There are no retorts clever enough for that.

  
\---  
  
  
  
Then there are others. A bartender with a drinking problem, a cleaner with a stalker ex, some of the dancers he pays handsomely and tries to keep at a distance unless they are particularly interested in filling out his much too-large bed upstairs. A driver who breaks down into a crying mess over debts caused by excessive gaming.   
  
Others, with their human minds and their human issues. Lucifer figures that since they allow him to live in the city of angels - which is more than his father ever did - he might as well offer them something. Favors, drinks, a party that never stops.  
  
The humans gather around him.   
  
He doesn’t understand them; they _amaze_ him.

\---

  
  
His own history is one of betrayal, of chains and unforgiving promises.  
  
Of never being enough. Unworthy, unwanted.  
  
Humans are short-sighted and violent, irrational and foolish and they give each other so much compassion that it seems they never run out of it. They love without limits, hate with a frenzy and look the other way when faced with something the do not wish to know.  
  
Everything is forgivable up here. Even things that should not be, things that should lock you in the darkest circle of Hell the humans consider redeemable, worthy of examination, investigation, medication. And love.  
  
Everything is emotional up here. You shield your own with your body and curse at high heavens if it doesn’t work. You sacrifice and protect, by instinct.  
  
He’s seen fathers throw themselves in front moving vehicles to save their offspring, seen mothers cradle the corpses of their drug-riddled cocaine-dealing spawn after someone’s finally put a bullet in them.  
  
“This is my fault,” one of them sobs once, a weary woman who’s probably only half as old as she looks, her hands wrapped around her son’s facial tattoos. “Oh baby, oh my poor baby.”  
  
“How could it _possibly_ be your fault?” he asks out of genuine interest. “Did you feed him narcotics in his bottle when he was but a wee little larvae? Have you forced him to sell these-” he licks his fingers that are still stained with what will probably be considered crime-scene evidence in a few minutes. “ _-utterly_ low-quality drugs to other addicts?”  
  
“No.” The woman doesn’t even look up at him, doesn’t even seem to react to his sarcasm. A waste, really, but for the best. He shouldn’t be here in the first place, usually avoids the mess of obvious crimes and the equally obvious involvement of L.A.P.D. The actual Devil must move with slightly more grace than a sweaty cop. “But I- I should’ve - oh _God_ -”  
  
“There there,” he offers. “I’m sure you were a decent mother, all things considered.”  
  
Well, _probably_. Well, better than his own at any rate.  
  
Then suddenly the woman’s hand is clutching his wrist as though she’s pulling him down or herself up, he’s not sure which. One hot, sweaty palm against his skin and her eyes widen even further; he takes a step back to escape her breath.  
  
“Thank you,” she whispers. “T-thank you.”  
  
  
\---  
  
  
The Detective is a random occurrence.  
  
Naturally, someone dull like Uriel might claim she’s part of his pattern if he bothered with single human souls in his pompous quest for divine knowledge but she is not. Is she? He finds that his conviction falters but what else is new and what does it matter. If God can work in mysterious ways then the Devil can bloody well do the same.  
  
The gist of it: Deliah is dead and Lucifer wants punishment; the Detective stands in his way so he places himself in hers. Collaboration, the humans call it. He isn’t certain he’d agree.  
  
He isn’t certain the Detective would, either.  
  
Not a lot of conclusive things as far as she’s concerned, no simple rules or defined boundaries between them and that’s _before_ he goes to great lengths to make sure she doesn’t die from her injuries. Great lengths afterwards, too, though nobody knows about the money he slips into the nurses’ pockets to bring her whatever food she prefers.  
  
“What is it about her,” Maze mutters from behind the bar, hands occupied with bottles.  
  
Lucifer downs the whiskey sour she places in front of him. Awful drink, truly, but Maze continues to discover new ways to torment with alcohol and he’s not going to give her the pleasure of seeing him so much as grimace. Downs another one and pushes back the memory of rushed anger as he had held the Detective in his arms at the crime scene, had let her stain his suit with blood and only stopped carrying her because the paramedics had told him that he absolutely had to. Frail mortal vessels and bullets do not mix well. The Detective had looked at him then, as he reluctantly let her go and there had been a light in her gaze. Familiarity. A rather warped misinterpretation on her part but familiarity nonetheless. Something deep inside him had rattled ominously.  
  
He doesn’t tell his demon that.  
  
“Don’t know,” he replies casually instead. “Isn’t it absolutely _thrilling_?”  
  
Maze says nothing but his third drink tastes of ashes.  
  
  
\---  
  
  
The city is rubbing off on him; he doesn’t want it to _ever_ stop.

 

 

 

>  


	2. Bullets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She dreams of bullets, of breaking glass.

 

Lucifer Morningstar is an arrogant player, a narcissistic rich boy. One of those men you steer clear of unless you want humiliation, a flesh wound in your self-esteem and - optionally - a fresh STD to go with it.  

That’s her first proper opinion of him.  
  
No, scratch that - her first _actual_ opinion of him is that he ought to be dead.  
  
  
  
\---  
  
  
  
The crime scene is drenched in blood and broken glass and he is _very_ much alive. Provocatively so behind his piano with a drink in his hand. Did he use the victim’s body as a shield? She knows better than to flat out _ask_ but she _thinks_ it, of course she thinks it. There’s something about his tone. That arrogance. Something about his suggestive remarks and overall appearance that brings it out in her, the knife-sharp edge Dan once claimed she has when it comes to “domestic violence or anything involving children”. _A full-on female cop cliche, then? Thank you for your insights._  
  
She nods towards his torso and he catches her gaze, seems to understand. A soft-sounding scoff escapes him and he cranes his neck slightly. As if the memory of not being shot to death - though all logic and reason state he _should_ have been - is still in his body. Lingering somewhere, needing to be smoothed out like a newly washed sheet. She studies the man in front of her a little closer, makes a few mental notes about expensive fabrics and sleek metals, about the air of someone who thinks he owns the world. Does he? She needs to run him through her databases later.  
  
“The benefits of immortality,” he quips and Chloe writes _drugs? Medical records?_  in her notepad.  
  
But there’s an edge to him as well that catches her attention, a lopsided quality to his smooth composure when he asks her if her corrupt little organisation will make this murder a priority. _Because it is to me_ . Chloe thinks of Dan’s recap outside, thinks of Palmetto, thinks of that ever-present scale of solve rates versus how far one is willing to dig. He is annoying her but he isn’t _wrong_ .  
  
There’s an _edge_ to him and it stays with her even as she leaves.  
  
  
  
\---  
  
  
  
And then he crashes into her life, even less dead.  
  
It’s not so much a crash, perhaps, as it is a slow saunter into her well-established police work but it has all the _characteristics_ of a heavy collision. Or maybe it’s just him, maybe those characteristics are all his, she’s not sure of anything when it comes to Lucifer Morningstar.  
  
Databases give her noting. No trace of his whereabouts before he arrived in Los Angeles, no previous ownership, no businesses in his name apart from Lux, no clue as to where he gets his obvious fortune from. Family money, Dan guesses, but then he always does. Rich kid turned even richer grown up. Chloe doesn't even care about the money bit, not when there are so many other things to take into consideration.   
  
His entire personality, for starters - or his  _persona_ , more likely; she doesn't buy that he's actually like this when nobody is watching.  And even so, he doesn't fully make sense.   
  
He’s charming and cheerful even as he insults everything around him, cracks puns and drops sexual innuendo all over the place. Like a dog that’s barely housebroken.  
  
He’s blunt and self-absorbed, full of both himself and his own imagined importance to her job, this city, the whole damned world. _The Devil himself._ She shakes her head just thinking about it.  
  
And he didn’t _die_ so she does think about him pretty much all the time.

  
  
  
\---  
  
  
  
His right hand is curved around his drink - bourbon on the rocks - his left hand rests on his thigh and Chloe can’t believe she’s sitting in a bar with a man like this.  
  
“You can’t deny there’s a connection,” he smiles and she’d have rolled her eyes, normally. Would have laughed and left. He’s far from her type and has very little going for him to persuade her to change preferences.  
  
Yet here she is. Denying nothing.  
  
  
  
\---  
  
  
  
She sees the first bullet hit him through the blurry haze of her own pain.  
  
One shot, then another one, followed by a third. He jerks back, flinches a little but she can’t see any blood and she wants to raise her head to get a better look because it _has_ to be there somewhere and he has to be hurt but everything is an explosion; her body burns, her head flooded by adrenaline and shock. She feels his hand on her arm, firmly holding her down and then he’s gone and Chloe drifts away.  
  
There’s a scream, she’s pretty sure she hears a _scream_ and the sound of broken glass. And Lucifer’s voice, harsh and menacing. She thinks of Trixie, thinks _I’m so sorry sweetheart_ and _how could I be so stupid to go alone with this civilian_ . This _stranger_ .  
  
When she comes to her senses briefly again, he’s by her side. His expression is focused, attentive, but the composure in it has been slightly disheveled; she wants to reach for him, wants to hold on to something reassuring because she really _is_ terrified. Death is everywhere nearly every day on the job but it never appears this close, never this random though she knows, of course, that’s how it always is. _Everything_ is.  
  
Even this weird stranger who kneels beside her.  
  
“So, Detective,” Lucifer says, in such a soft voice that is washes away the mark his previous voice had left in the air of this room. “Let’s get back to saving your life.”  
  
  
  
\---

 

  
  
A couple of weeks later she looks into the eyes of Jimmy Barnes again and the terror she sees in them leaves her nauseated for hours afterwards. It’s not ordinary anger over being caught or even guilt at having had his dirty laundry exposed; the only thing she sees is fear. Blind, raw _fear_ .  
  
_He’s the Devil! He’s the Devil!_  
  
Chloe checks twice that the door to her house is locked before going to sleep that night.  
  
She dreams of bullets, of breaking glass.    
  
  
  
\---  
  
  
There’s an element of uncertainty that enters her life along with Lucifer Morningstar.  
  
Along the contours of her thoughts and beliefs something else slips in, suggesting that she ought to look harder, deeper, from a different angle. That if she just tilts the universe a bit, she’ll find the unseen. That life - even her ordinary, somewhat lackluster life - isn’t exactly what it seems. A sharpness to otherwise soft landings, an unexpected tear in her ordinary tight-knit structure, a little hitch in the smooth way she has tried to organize her life around her work, her family, her heart .  
  
There’s an element of uncertainty that enters her life along with Lucifer Morningstar.  
  
It could just be a coincidence but she’s not going to bet on it.

 


End file.
